


To wager everything / to go all in against all odds

by HolyEmpress



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Hospital Setting, M/M, death mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12213249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyEmpress/pseuds/HolyEmpress
Summary: Post-graduation.Eichi escapes the hospital, comes back and - faces the consequences.





	1. Landing

He’s waiting by the gates, staring coldly at him through the thin glass ; and he considers that this is, without a doubt, his last chance to run away.

He doesn’t need the contents of his luggage, which, with his name on it, would be delivered right at his parent’s door within a day anyways – he doesn’t need a clear idea of _where_ to go either, because anywhere would be better than Keito’s cruel trap. It was easy, to make fun of his beloved bestfriend and put a great disappearance act again right in front of his watchful eyes, he’d gotten so good at taking backdoors and sweet talking strangers on the spot, his best accomplice was right behind him, ready to undertand without a word, they’d fly to a new country and laugh it off in the airplane once again, the circumstances were almost too perfect. 

He sighs, smiles, tightening his grasp on the handle of his cane and taking the first step toward the exit – a pair of earbuds shutting him off from the noise of the outside world, so that for a short moment, he could be alone with the music and the sound of his anxious heart. That pitiful organ was quick to give up, he thinks, closing his eyes, immersing himself in a fantasy world of harmony, in the depths of the beautiful ensemble, a universe that was going to come crashing down in a few seconds.

It was excruciatingly difficult, to stop running away.

 

Keito grabs him by the shoulder  the moment he’s out. It’s weird – he’d expected some loud, emotional « Eichi ! » but all he gets is the feeling of fingers digging into his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and he takes out his earbuds out of obligation, defeated. Now, it was too late to do anything flashy and fun.

It was « real life » all over again.

He forces a stronger smile, one worthy of an idol, because Keito hasn’t seen him in almost a month and he can feel in that fake tough act all the resentment and rancor, which he doesn’t even mind, really, because he’d been awfully cruel to everyone, so they’d earned it, they’d earned their right to be angry and to boss him around all they liked.

As someone with so little time left on earth, he would comply and restore their peace of mind before fading away gracefully.

\- Please let go of my shoulder, he declares wearily,

\- So that you can fly off to the other side of the earth again ? Not a chance, his bestfriend answers.

Though his tone is as authoritarian as ever, it’s also slightly shaky, in a way he can’t quite exactly pinpoint –  but what is for sure is that it makes him feel bad and he’s just too tired, something he’s not even allowed to mention because it’s too good of a segue for Keito’s scolding and he won’t give him that pleasure, even now that he should – for the sake of getting away from the crowd and sitting down before explaining himself.

\- Where’s the limousine, he mumbles instead.

\- Excuse you ?  The young man almost shouts.

He looks up and stares into Keito’s eyes. It’s a fight he won’t win – he’s ill, tired, and Keito’s running on anger, redbull and coffeine shots – but it’s a battle worth fighting nonetheless, because he wants his bestfriend to see just how weary he is, and in exchange, he stares, stares into Keito’s sadness,  into the mess he’d made, right there, within his bestfriend’s heart, and accepts it as his own. 

Keito gives up before him somehow.

\- Come on, let’s get you out of there, he says, placing himself just besides him so that he could still guide him while watching his back as they walked to the exit.

 

He doesn’t ask what Keito plans to do with Wataru. Not that he doesn’t care,  but they’d prepared themselves for this from the very beginning – it was part of the promise, to embrace the risks, the danger and the complications and just run with it. Now that it was over, he could smile back at this naive vows exchanged over his hospital bed ; Wataru had sworn on Amazing and he’d sworn on his life, to make it even, and before he could even begin to spell out the word  _consequences,_ his world had begun spinning around a whole new axis. Suddenly, there had been light, fun, excitment again.

And that light had shone so hard, that fun, gotten him so high and far away, because they were throwing away logic and reason for the sake of that thrill. Consequences – the word sounded funny now, when it had been banned from his vocabulary for so long. It was never about the consequences, always about chasing the beautiful, the bold, the rare and the ephemeral, it was italian and spanish and french rolling off Wataru’s tongue as he marked down new stops on their maps.  About opera, ballet and gourmet restaurant in secret streets that make his leg aches and the whole universe spin once he’d eaten the first bite.

Even the respiratory aids on the plane, the routine of fainting and waking up in a foreign doctor’s office, dizzy and scared, it was so good,  it ended up with the both of them laughing because Wataru took care of him in those moments as he would have done with a child – making a fairytale out of that gloomy condition that was his, he was a prince struck by fate, aided by fairies and gods as they found a way to sustain his cursed life just a while longer.

 

Reminiscing makes him smile. They reach the limousine quickly. Keito opens the door for him – it’s sweet, he thinks to himself, but he doesn’t feel like pointing it out out loud. This is just like a bad cop movie, and his only right is to remain silent before the interrogation begins.

\- I hope you know we’re going straight to the hospital, his bestfriend declares, and watching him putting up that act makes him even more exhausted somehow.

He sits down next to the car window, and Keito picks the other window to sit by. It’s absolutly ridiculous, something he doesn’t want to put up with, they were adults, but he doesn’t have the energy to bicker either, so he  plays along and looks at the scenery, waiting for his jailer to make a move.

It takes a while. Because Keito’s worried and he guesses, without much effort, what the past weeks must have been for him, looking for hints, clues  only to be faced by a wall and an unsolvable mistery – it had been part of the excitment, to know they were far too good and unpredictable to ever be caught, even though, more often than he would like to admit, he’d purposefully tried to give Keito a hint, to be painfully obvious just to see if a familiar face who show up at the theater to capture him,  all in vain, because Keito wasn’t like this at all. Keito was reasonable, and wouldn’t take a plane to another country on the offchance that he’d be able to take him back.

He would consider it, hesitate, and regret not doing it – sticking to his rational methods rather than his gut feeling.  Rash decisions, that’s what  _Wataru_ was good for.

 

\- What were you thinking ?  He lets out, giving up all pretense of being angry,  still not ready to look at him nonetheless.

It’s an interesting question.

So he wants to give him a satisfying answer, to enjoy that last untainted conversation before they’d reach the hospital and doctors would rob him of his chances to be heard but – he’s also aware, that back decisions sometimes had no good motives, and he can’t tell him.

About what he was thinking back then,  when he’d decide to embrace his last chance to make his dreams come true, he can’t look at Keito and tell him  _I was thinking about my ever-shortening life, and what I want to do before it ends,_ he  doesn’t have the right to leave that kind of mark on his heart.

\- I was thinking of myself, off course, what else ? He  says, smiling for himself. 

\- That doesn’t answer anything !

This time, Keito turns around, banging his fist on the car seat, and, had the circustamces being any l ess grave , he would have laughed at his face, because the move is utterly unimpressive and ridiculous,  but he holds it back.  He wasn’t a teenager anymore  \- if anything, he felt like an old man, having crammed a few year’s worth of precious experience in the span of three weeks. 

So old and wise he could even begin to consider saying  _sorry –_ but he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t, this kind of lie simply wasn’t his style. Pretending to be someone he wasn’t was acceptable, but sugarcoating reality was something he couldn’t stand for.

He really was this horrible kind of person.

 

\-  Ask a more precise question then. Torture me, I’m all yours now.

\- I won’t do you that pleasure.  I’ve humored you and your whims for too long already.

 

They stare at each other again, but there’s no intensity, just defiance, and fatigue on both sides, so they fall silent again until the car reaches the hospital parking.

He waits for Keito to open the car door for him and even if he’s gotten so old, wise and reasonable after  this journey, he still has to fight the urge to kick and scream and cry and try to get away from the inevitable. He’d shutdown any kind of thoughts about this moment so that he could enjoy his big mistake, but now that it was there, it felt as if the sky itself was ready to come crashing down.

 

And nobody could understand, that four walls were just too little, for his big dreams, for his burning desire to live. Nobody would listen, they all fought so hard to contain him in that perfect medical box, where he could never sing, never cry either, but where he could suffer through those days earned with such great difficulties, and they had the audacity to tell him it was for his own good. 

Even Keito, in spite of all of his hopes, did this. There are venomous words waiting  to roll off  his tongue, harsh comments about his lack of imagination,  so many ways he could hurt him more, all he had to say why  _no wonder I didn’t make these plans with you_ and he’ d be sure he’d be admitted into the hospital because of broken bones instead of terminal illness for once.

 

\-  Come on, we don’t have all day, Keito insists when he realizes he’s not moving from his car seat.

\- I don’t feel like walking, he objects softly.

\- Don’t worry, you won’t be doing much walking from now on.

His friend  freezes,  realiz ing  a bit too late the meaning behind what he’d just said,  but he offers him his hand to hold  instead of getting mad. 

Wataru would have made a fun remark about all of this, something about taking his hand to escort him to a world of dreams, but all Keito does is hold his fingers so tightly he almost want to ask him to stop, yet it cheers him up a little somehow. His bestfriend is just as unfun as ever. 

 

\- Are you going to visit me ? He asks later, filling his paperwork absent-mindedly. Once they’d admit him for good, Keito would have to leave. He’d be alone in the world of beeping and white dissonance.

He’d have to  keep being told about « life support » and « additionnal treatments » again.

 

\- Which one would make you the most upset ?

\- Hmm… If you came everyday. I mean, that’s too many scoldings too bear, with you on top of the nurses.  And you’re probably still stuck on that little escapade I had, so you’re going to be really insufferable, aren’t you ?

\- Then you’ve got your answer.

 

He laughs.

( To remember he’s alive ; to scare death off for a little while longer.)

 

 


	2. Windmill

He’d rarely seen Wataru so happy.  
Which was a bit strange, he thought, considering the extravagant act his friend had had going on for years now but, like this, forced to maintain a fake identity that left no place for impromptu magic tricks and long tirades, he looked… overjoyed. He understood, however ; deep down, he felt the same way.  
Planning their trip had been hard on the both of them, the subject of intense chats that went on throughout the nights as they compared what would be the best options, purchased necessary items and took care of some less legal matters – but now that it was actually happening, none of that mattered anymore. All he cared about was the unbelievable now, the present in which Wataru and him had set foot in a place so beautiful he could barely believe it existed, all to be guests to a most thrilling spectacle.  
Even if the people around him were speaking languages he wasn’t familiar with, without words, he could still tell he was in the world of fancyness and culture. From the outfits to the way people stood, tall, so ridiculously proud to be here, part of a world only few could ever dream of reaching, he knew he knew it was paradise they were intruding upon.  
Tonight it was his turn to pretend to be Wataru’s expensive girlfriend. This was a crucial part to their tricks to keep people from recognizing them, on top of the wigs and the fun disguises, and they switched regularly, each time they settled in a new city. Wataru was always much more convincing than him, a true lady if there ever was one, but he was beginning to get the hang of it as well. It was simply too amusing. He couldn’t help but think of all the hours he’d spent practicing back at the hospital, discretly trying to arrange his hair and change his walk so that he could pass off as the kind of woman he wanted all those wealthy european to believe he was rich and independant and dating the beautiful man by his side - now that this dream had come true, the sacrifices necessary to get there seemed almost too little in comparison to his state of perfect bliss.  
Wataru’s hair was black, tonight. He missed the shade of his signature blue, sometimes, but the changes were fascinating ; it was never much, only a new color and slightly different makeup, good contouring and colored lenses but each time, it felt like getting to know a new exciting person again, even more tonight, when he had the priviledge to see his dear friend wear a well-tailored tuxedo.

If he closed his eyes for a second, he could believe in this other life, in a parrallel world where « Eichi Tenshouin » was someone else’s name and he wouldn’t even be conscious of the act of breathing, inhabiting a body with no imperfections, living simply, looking forward to a future both near and far but – he had neither of those, condemned, a perpetual prisoner in life’s cold cage, a bird that would never be free.  
Nothing hurt too much yet. It would, in an hour or two, once the opera they were seeing tonight would have gotten him excited beyond what his body could handle but for now, the frail machinery that kept him alive held itself together in a state of fragile peace, sustaining itself on delusional hopes, holding onto lies, « it’s gonna be okay », « it’s gonna get better somehow ».

His hand reaches out for Wataru’s hair – his friend wasn’t rambling about the famous singers and the technicians in charge of tonight performance yet, how surprising – and pulls gently to get his attention.  
\- Hmm, could it be that my Empress has a request for me ? Do you want to know who’s in charge of the orchestra, perhaps ? Or who built the set ? I have made sure to memorize all relevant information just for you, my darling !  
\- Not really, he objects with a smile. I just…

He wonders if it’s maybe too early to say this.  
The moment is so good, from the subtle lights shining down on them to the very atmosphere of this room, the excitment and the joy spreading around them, it’s heavenly and unreal ; and that’s why it has to be now, he realizes, ecause those simple words would be tainted soon enough, would lose their shine if he waited to be plugged back into machines to say them out loud, wouldn’t be heard once Wataru’s beautiful violet eyes would stop being his and his only.  
Though this fact alone should have been a weight on his heart, he felt lighter. That’s how he want to live.  
With every second important and unique.

\- I just felt like thanking my dear prince for this, that’s all.  
\- Me, a prince ? That’s a very…

He takes his hand, before Wataru can get a chance to start a monologue, and holds it firmly.

\- I said thank you, and I mean it.  
\- Am I allowed to thank you as well, then ? His friend asks in a serious tone.

For a short moment, their eyes meet. The whole opera house fades away, there’s little else than the warmth of Wataru’s palm, radiating with the essence of life itself, little aside from the purple jewels and the feeling they carry, love in a form he’s never gotten used to, but it’s enough to take his breath away. Panic spreads quickly.  
He was going to lose this as well. Heavy important seconds were already slipping away ; and he was slowly being uninvited him from crucial events, awards shows where all the important trophies would go to Wataru, potential weddings, he was already half of a ghost, half-gone.  
It was terrifying. Even fighting back wasn’t enough. He couldn’t run fast enough to defy fatality.  
Wataru’s beautiful eyes were gazing deep into his own, oddly solemn until the magician suddenly pulls him closer, taking advantage of their entertwined fingers to create enough proximity for him to leave a chaste kiss on his lips. It annoys him a litte – he pulls him too, even closer, to initiate a much more vivid kiss, one with rythm and melody and taste.  
And as their lips part, they both can’t help but laugh as their own childish ways.

\- You indulge me too much, he complains as he settles back into his seat, arms folded. Weren’t you supposed to keep me in check or something ?  
\- I’m making sure you seize the day as much as you distrust the present, nothing more, my lady. That your eyes remain illuminated through this pleasant dream – tonight is a night of wonder, and tomorrow promises to be fun as well, so it would pain my heart to burden yours with unnecessary « thank you », don’t you think that way too ?

He keeps quiet, chosing to smile rather than to put up an unnecessary fight. They didn’t need that kind of conversation anymore ; it was one of the joy of friendship, to be understood so easily, to revel in wonderful silences were their heartbeats aligned. When the curtain opens, Wataru’s happiness is his, and his emotions are one with Wataru’s when the music moves him to tears as well.  
It’s harmony.  
The ensemble plays a symphony of hope.

*.*.*

Before he can even begin to process his surrounding, somebody’s holding his hair and he’s throwing up. The world is spinning ; he coughs, there’s nothing more to vomit, and the world is a little clearer after a few more seconds, hospital, this is for sure the hospital, the person who gently holds him as he lays back down is a nurse, and the time – he can’t actually tell, aside from « post-operation », both past and presents are a blur. Somebody’s speaking to him, or so he thinks, his eyes are heavy, but they won’t let him go back just yet without making a few basic checks, so he forces himself, to focus on a single point on the ceiling, to actually listen, it’s a simple matter of catching onto keywords and ignoring the rest, they don’t want much from him, he recites the usual stuff, name and date of birth, and the nurse moves on to another patient, he’s free for a while – he’s already plugged into the same old monitors anyways, so that they wouldn’t even need his input to make sure he was alive, talking to his body instead of his mind, he really was nothing more than a faulty object in a repairer’s workshop, waiting to be declared obsolete sooner or later.  
There’s pain and fatigue, but he’s so familiar with it he can’t bring himself to care. He’d been here before, when he was six, when he was twelve, eighteen, and now twenty-two, it was just too boring to even comment on – the aches in his chest, the fact that he was so incredibly conscious of every breath he had to take, that was his very own horrible normalcy.

He closes his eyes. Maybe this time, death would take him away, in painful silence, but he’d been refused at the gates to hell so many times, as if there was a holy mission he still had to fufill and was yet painful unaware of, he couldn’t genuinely believe fate would prove itself so kind now – before he’d even faced half of the consequences of his beautiful adventure.  
He also knew he wouldn’t have nice dreams as well, nightmares could only be repelled when the people he loved were by his side, when his days weren’t just a dark void, a sad loop of nothingness ; and there was no reason for him to believe he would get away anymore.  
Hell on earth, so quiet and so white, was his and his only.

*.*.*

The next days are empty. Doctors come and go, and so do nurses, and even interns hoping to learn about his sad hereditary disease ; most of the time, he pretends to sleep, telling himself stories, continuing the tale Wataru had started, some weeks ago, to console him about his pathetic status, the one in which he’s a true Emperor, the one in which curses are real and this world nothing more than a cruel illusion, and it gets him from his morning medecine intake to the nightly one, but it doesn’t fix his heart.  
It doesn’t quiet his other thoughts, doesn’t calm down the violent urge to mock himself – he wasn’t a teenager, he knew there was no Emperor within him, only a living ghost begin for his chance, and even if he fights every urge to think about the past, he doesn’t win everytime. Thanksfully, there’s no witness to his tears, and as he cries, he’s not even sure to recognize sadness or joy.  
Nostalgia doesn’t have a color for someone without a future.

They move him into the private aisle after a week. He doesn’t have the strength to rejoice at first, even though he fully understand what it means : that hee was going to be allowed visitors again. It made sense, he was eating well and he hadn’t had any significant attacks either, so they probably thought he’d earned it. His intuition also told him that more than one of his friends must have harassed them while he was stuck under strict surveillance.

Food tastes just as bland as the previous days but once lunch is over, he begins to feel a little more alive, he senses the first spark of excitment since – forever, really - within his heart. He was only allowed one visitor a day for now, the medical team still afraid he would relapse as bad as when he’d came back from Europe, but it was enough to get him back in the swing of things, big enough of a distraction, especially knowing who would be bestowed the priviledged of talking to him today.

\- Hi Keito, he says when the door open, and a long sigh from his guest immediatly follows.  
It’s as if his friend himself was frustrated for holding his own promise, but his mood seems to change quickly the seconds he gets the chance to take a good look at him. Hospital patients didn’t have access to their own reflections all that often.  
It was a lot of staring at the ceiling, feeling your hair, tracing the outline of your deep eyebags and purposefully ignoring the faint image on your room’s window, the one that seemed dedicated to dulling your skintone to an even paler white – it was all about denial, especially for an idol, he didn’t want to let the posters and the magazine shots to become relics of light that no longer shone, but the choice wasn’t his, so he just pretended. Keito’s eyes, however, had not talent for telling lies.  
\- Did you see a ghost, dear friend ? He ironizes to get him out of his torpor.  
\- I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Eichi.  
\- My bad, I thought you came here for my delightful company.  
He didn’t talk a lot these days and the sound of his own voice is a shock. It’s hoarse and ugly. He sinks lower under his blankets, losing whatever motivations he had for dealing with reality, for playing with his bestfriends – facing forward seemed like the worst idea now that he realized what it genuinely implied.  
Keito’s harsh tone of voice was meant to cut short any attempt of pretending, was a blade that would tear any deceitful tales apart – maybe because he hated mediocre stories more than anyone he’d ever known. His friend takes a seat next to his bed.

There’s no use making small talk.

\- Where should I start ? He smiles, knowing those few seconds he’d just bought would be his last break before the end of visiting hours.


	3. Walls

Eichi talks, and the room changes color, ever so slightly, from the cold white to something much more luminous and lively. Just a few words and the monitors overbearing sounds begin to fade, replaced by music, classical violin alternating with the thrilling melody of electric guitars and the cheering of the crowds, Eichi talks, and as always – the world has no choice to adapt itself to that voice, so beautiful it could turn darkness into light, so strong it brought life even in places where all air was gone. Even when he tries to focus, it’s as if the story of his adventures is taking him by the hand, and he travels with him, to places he didn’t even know existed, he can feel Hibiki’s overwhelming presence, hear the birds, smell freedom itself in the way Eichi’s voice betrays his smiles and emotions back then, and more than anything, his happiness.

He finds it hard to snap out of it, to stop imagining along. When he forces himself to for a few seconds, the room is more sinister than ever and his eyes fall on the monitors again, following the curve of Eichi’s weak heartbeat instead of Eichi’s beautiful, fairytale-like story.

Eichi doesn’t stop speaking, out of breath and hoarse but more stubborn than ever, chosing to never look at him even once, a childish punition for the person who’d ruined his fun on top of putting him back here, in the place he knew he belonged in no matter how much he didn’t want to. Eichi talks and he compares, silently, knowing he’s not allowed to mention the weeks he’d spent avoiding work just to look for him instead, driven only by coffeine and anxiety as he investigated a case with no clues and no victims, but he compares nonetheless, takes notes of the differences between the truth and his wildest guesses, and painfully finds out, just how many times he’d been right, just on a hunch, on a feeling that _this is where his heart would tell him to go_ and nothing more. 

He could have caught him in Venice, at the opening for that exhibit that featured an artist he liked, simply because Eichi loved people and there’s no way he’d have missed an unique occasion like that. He could have caught him in during that german festival too, even with Hibiki making him watch from backstage instead of from the crowd, he would have found a way – because he remembered all the bands featured there from Eichi’s hospital playlist and even his most played song, he was the one tasked on updating it when his friend was banned from his own computer, but he hadn’t acted, even upon a certitude such as this one, and all the dozen other times he could have didn’t matter, because history never remembered good intentions, only what facts.

 

He’d sat idly at his desk and that was it, a lifeless right hand, frozen in time, useless in the end.

 

\- You’re not listening, Eichi remarks. You can leave, I’m not forcing you.

 

His sharp tone startles him. making it even more obvious that he’d, indeed, stop paying attention, and he feels something heavy on his shoulders before realizing that Eichi’s turned away from his beloved window to look at him, an honor he hadn’t even noticed.

Now, it feels like judgment itself is upon his head but the feeling is nothing new, it’s not enough to make him falter, yet, he considers the proposition seriously, he could leave and come back the next day. He’d already abused Eichi’s time, energy, and willingness to give him the truth on a silver plate for once.

 

\- You can leave me to die, his friend continues cheerfully, gazing directly into his eyes.

 

That attitude alone was enough for him to definitly decide against it, especially now that Eichi had decided he was worth his attention. He wouldn’t waste his chance again, and even against such a disadvantaged opponent, he’d fight all the same – since Eichi was issuing him such an obvious challenge.

 

\- That’s some line you should save for someone like Hibiki, he retorts. He’s the one who took you away from an elite team of competent doctors to go on some silly trip.

\- Is that what it sounded like to you ? Fiendish Wataru taking me, a powerless sick man, away to send me to certain death ? You should have interrupted me earlier if you were so confused, Keito.

 

He smiles at him. They were falling back into that routine, effortlessly, even if those conversations felt like dancing admist a field of landmines, they enjoyed it all the same – it was his definition of home, to sense of familiarity even in the most unpleasant moments, just from seeing the person he’d missed act true to himself. That was his precious thing, or at least one them.

A worthy reason to spend three weeks running on no sleep, to break down in front of the people who had come to check on him, alternating between sadness and anger without ever being able to control it, a justification for the times he’d snapped at innocent Tenshouin industries workers, an explanation to why he’d been so mad, at everyone, at everyone, while knowing he must have been the one at fault – their friendship had become a part of his soul so crucial, that, once removed, made him unable to go on, unable to understand himself anymore.

 

Eichi smiles back.

 

\- You’re slacking off. You should have gotten started with the lecture already, and yet all you did was listen to me ramble. Are you growing old faster than me somehow ?

\- I don’t feel like scolding you.

\- Hmm ? Did you catch something ? Be careful, or you’re gonna end up becoming my roommate, and you know just how unbearable I am.

\- Won’t you stop playing dumb for a second ?

 

Words come out of his mouth before he can even begin to think about holding them back – Eichi eyes linger on his clenched fists, as if he’s really expecting to be hit sooner or later, even if his face shows no fear. He’s calm. It makes him even more angry. How could he be so peaceful after what he’s done ?

 

\- I won’t answer to a friend who’s not even brave enough to ask me what’s really on his heart, Eichi declares, slowly. Actually, I’m not even sure if I want a friend like that at all. I told you. You may leave if you’re so upset.

 

He unclenchs his fists. That kind of fury was useless.

But it was hard, so hard, harder than anything, and there was a hundred excuses not to try – it was so unfair, that Eichi could run away and yet never leave him the right to do the same, forcing him to face him head on.

And what took even more courage to admit was that he understood why. Why Eichi had that peculiar priviledge - everything in the room was a reminder, that’s why looking at his bestfriend had become so painful too, because that paleness, the way his features seems more marked and his face so hollow, so tired, it reminded him of Eichi’s numbered days, and the many of those precious days he’d missed, too cowardly to take a chance.

It would have been unreasonable ; that’s why he should have done it, back when he had the chance.

 

\- Come on, Keito. I’m…

\- Why did you do this to me ? Don’t I cherish you enough ?

 

So today, he would take that opportunity he was given one more time, to be unreasonable, to follow a bad example, letting his heart speak over his logical mind. Because his friend’s numbered days were his own, they had to fastforward together through everything, embracing hurt and pain instead of letting it fade overtime – he had to bear it with him, this accelerated life, even if it was making his head spin, as if a burning fever had grown within his brain.

 

\- Couldn’t you … leave a note ? He starts, tryng not to shout. Make a call, have Hibiki’s stupid dove deliver a letter ? Did you enjoy the thought of tormenting your friends ? Do you get off my guilt and fear ? I… I… I wanted to...

\- You would have stopped us. I couldn’t afford the slightlest risk.

\- You almost killed yourself going to Europe in that state and you’re talking about risks ?

\- You would have chained me down to my bed and made sure I’d never leave the hospital before I’m dead.

\- What do you know about me, Eichi ? He spits out, upset.

 

Though he’s not crying, his voice, at that moment, betrays everything. He hates him, for unraveling so easily the mess of emotions he’d managed to hide for the better part of the afternoon, and he hates that he’s still lying, denying him the explanations he’d earned as he was exposing all of his rancor for him to admire. « That’s the damage you’ve made, you fool », that’s what he should have said.

Especially now that his friend was staring at the window again.

 

\- Why can’t you admit it ?

\- Finally a good question ! It’s because if I acknowledge your pain, I’ll have to talk to you about what upsets _me_ and I have enough foresight to know it’s gonna take us nowhere. But you’re in luck, I’m gonna tell you anyways.

 

He pauses.

 

\-  You’re right to feel like it was directed at you. You were the worst about this.  I was watching myself die and you acted as if this what how everything was meant to be. I was… I was disgusted. By myself… by myself being that much of a sad spectacle for you, for… for the people who cared, and for the… the promises I couldn’t keep. It sure was fun, watching… life sleep away from my fingers. 

 

It’s unusual to hear Eichi hesitate on his word s, and that alone makes him feel as if their perfectly closed roo m is full of wind,  so cold it makes  he shivers. 

Once again,  he’s stuck, unable to say  his thoughts outloud – he can’t tell him, « but what did you want me to do ? » because the answer  was all to o  obvious,  so clear Hibiki had been able to see it.  A ll he can do is witness that peculiar pain,  t he unbearable sight of his childhood’s friend burden,  the same idiotic childhood friend who never let the word « unfair » go past his lips in those moments, prefering to blame his pain on tangible things rather than a stupid, unbendable fatality. 

 

\- You know, I still thought you’d stop us early on. Everytime I was making an obvious choice, I turned to Wataru and smiling, joking it was our last fun time before you’d catch us...

 

The door opens, slowly as he finishes his sentence.

 

\- … But you  never  did,  somehow.

\- Mister Tenshouin, visiting hours ended thirty minutes ago, the nurse who had just arrived interrupts him.

 

He looks surprised, something that makes him look much younger than his sinister speech ; he wonders if he’s gonna try to bargain, like a kid would, but Eichi turns to him with his idol smile, the one he used on his fans to send them away nicely at handshake events.

 

\- See you, Keito ! He says, waving him goodbye.

 

He grabs his bag quickly.

 

\- I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. You need to rest. Listen to your doctors… Take care, Eichi.

 

He leaves without looking at him again.

Walking fast, avoiding even doctors who recognized him – he came every other day to get detailed reports – only when stopping when he reaches the parking outside the hospital, only then he allows himself to slam his fist into the concrete.

Because the release isn’t enough, he does it again, over and again until the first drop of blood falls from his knuckles, to fufill that sudden craving for pain. It’s not enough to appease the beast of sadness growing in his heart, nor the ghosts who kept repeating the same words not matter how much he tried to silence them.

 

_But you didn’t._

_I was waiting for you to,_

_and you didn’t._


	4. Prismatic rain

 

He doesn’t break down, somehow, holding on to some sense of pride even when he was nothing but a puppet on an hospital bed, waiting to be taken apart by an invisible hand – he lets the sadness sink, drown itself in the ocean of pain he was experiencing. Breathing left him with a burning sensation in his lungs ; using any muscle was out of question, when all energy was spent fighting that sickening sensation of pain without a cause. A nurse tries to feed him some rice and it comes right back up, making him feel as if he was going to choke on air – and he instantly knows he wouldn’t be eating anymore, for weeks, maybe until he died even, just for the sake of keeping him on earth a little while longer.

Trying to just think about what had happened in the afternoon was an impossible task ; his thoughts fell apart before they could even begin to form coherence, interrupted by spikes of fatigue and med-induced drowsiness that blurred everything and shut his eyes close without his own input. Resisting it was useless, especially when he’d overused every ressource his body had left just for his conversation with Keito. Waving, at the end – had brought back memory of his earliest idol training, as he’d learned to smile even when his legs felt like giving up. He’d perfected it, now.

It was comforting to have peaked at at least one thing before his inevitable death.

 

He falls asleep easily ; it’s dreamless, devoid anything, the simple act of a machine shutting itself off after overheating. There was some hope he’d feel better when he’d wake up – probably not in the morning, he could anticipate that much – and that they wouldn’t forbid visits again until a few more days of this bad routine, giving him a chance to behave like a sane person would and restrain himself from being anything close to passionate. Ironically, he was expected to act a lot less alive than he’d done since now.

Self-preservation wasn’t a concept he’d ever considered worth his attention. Living as if his soul wasn’t right there, burning up, consummed with feelings and desires, feigning peace and acceptance – that wasn’t worth an extra week of visiting rights. Selfishly, like a child playing with his favorite toys, he’d use his emotions and exhaust them until a more capable adult would decide to take even that away from his empty room.

 

It was worth it.

He had to believe it was.

 

*.*.*

 

The first thing he feels, long before opening his eyes, is a hand gently stroking his hair, so he fakes being asleep for a few more minutes just to enjoy that soft, gentle caress. The scent of roses and jasmin tea fills his nose after a while too, a heavenly combination – it’s nostalgic, as if he’d just taken a nap during a club meeting at Yumenosaki instead of several hours of heavy sleep in an hospital room.

Wataru’s presence was like a good luck charm, chasing all evil away.

 

\- Did the nurses let you in ? He murmurs, eyes half-shut.

\- I might have invited myself on my own, Eichi, the magician answers with a soft voice.

 

He smiles, and forces himself to wake up, only to be greeted by a bright light that fills him with regrets immediatly – the agressive rays of an early afternoon sun, that Wataru chases away, adjusting the blinds with inhuman speed. He wants to make a comment about it, how the medical staff was going to notice this and about how he would love for him to replace all of them too, but his mouth is dry and his whole body feels so uncooperative, glued to his bed, that he decides against all those useless remarks. Like he was living in a fiction – he couldn’t afford to say something irrelevant, to bore the audience repeating facts they already knew, he had to advance the story as it was rushing to its last chapter.

Maybe it’s the last time I’ll ever be with Wataru, he tells himself.

Just to feel the weight of that possibility, just to be fully there, even when drugs where dragging him toward slumber again. It reminded him of the way he had to talk himself into doing lives, back when they were still in _fine,_ though he was much more reckless back then ; he suppresses his last inch of reasons with the same, all-powerful argument.

Maybe it won’t happen ever again,  _us, them, me,_ in the same room, hearts beating to the melody of a single tune.

The ensemble would fall apart after a second of harmony, always making its past beauty seems like an unbelievable miracle,  a lie – so he had to go and break himself a little more for the sake of the comet that only passed the earth once in a millennium, for the sake of being one of the mortals blessed by the incredible sounds.

The secret song of life, blessing those who dared embracing it fully.

 

\- Come here, he calls, and his voice seems pathetic to his own ears, but Wataru smiles.

 

He was wearing old clothes, a long royal blue jacket with flowers embroided on the collar. The colors contrasted with his beautiful hair, that now went almost all the way down to his knees. He’d cut it on several occasions during their trip, because it was too much of a signature, but seeing it back to its old glory was moving, as if his favorite movie star had decided to break the tv screen to visit him all of a sudden, still basking in that hollywood halo that made people glow as if they were angels on earth.

Wataru sits on the edge of his bed, ignoring the chair meant for his visitors, leaning forward a bit, and his tired fingers, caught in the mess of cords, still manage to reach for the braid before falling back flatly, but his friend gently leads them back up with his own, supporting him as he caresses the hair he loved so much.

 

As he’d grown older – Wataru had learned to make his silence as beautiful as his own voice, graceful, louder than the noises competing with him. It was soothing to stay like this, enjoying a simple touch and the absence of a conversation that would hold the risk of making them sad. _You’re so different from Keito,_ he thinks as his fingers go down to trace the shape of Wataru’s nose. He wouldn’t have done this with anyone else, allowing himself to be a child again, chasing the hero from the magic show aired on his minuscule tv.

 

The one that remained unplugged nowadays, a symbol of what the rest of the world thought of him.

That someone so weak shouldn’t be allowed to dream anymore.

 

\- I… he begins,  unsure if he’d even be able to say it.

\- I love you, Eichi ! Wataru interrupts promptly.

 

His eyes  open wide, in shock, and  the magician grins.

 

\- Did I surprise you ?  Did your heart rate go up, did you feel alive and excited ? I wish to...

\- Do you really love me ?  He whispers, letting his hand falls out of Wataru’s palm.

 

H e wanted to enjoy that moment.

But f or a second, he’d felt the difference too strongly, no matter how much they’d tr ied to bridge the gap together, for weeks, for years  now . He knew that kind of confrontation was inevitable ; toward the end, every questions wanted to be answered,  even the ones that would leave him more vulnerable and exposed,  that would cut more of the threads that kept him bound to life.

The mechanics of Wataru’s heart and mind were so obscure to him, in spite of the times they’d spend by each other’s side, because the magician was so talented at making other forgive he even was a person, redirecting all the attention on them, becoming a  magic mirror that  made small mundane sparks into grandiose, fairytale-like fireworks. Nobody understood the workings of the frame that made them into heroes and princes.

They could only be fascinated by that impossible reflection.

 

Wataru leans forward and kisses his forehead – and he gets lost as his beautiful long hair blocks out the light, feeling like a blanket of stars above him, so comfortable his childhood hero picks up on his reaction and decides to stay like this, gazing down into his eyes. 

\- I’ll love you forever, he declares.

\- Even when I’m dead ? He asks.

\- You’ll never be dead to me. I’ll always be dancing with you in Vienna. Always be discussing the latest plays with you.

 

He slowly stands back up – the hospital looks so bland with him there, taking even its sterile world as a stage. Wataru’s eyes get lost for a moment, gone in a faraway land – so rarely did he ever have the occasion to witness him as he was truly thinking, he who could so easily improvise – before he straighten his posture and smiles at him.

 

\- I’ll open my arms like this  and you’ll be there, even if only I can see it.

\- You’re…

 

He chokes on his words. 

The image is perfect. Wataru’s eyes, wide open, his hair swinging around him as he waltzs with a ghost to a tune only them know – there was nobody else that night in that lonely street where Wataru had started humming and guided his feeble legs into a slow dance – so perfectly he almost feels himself in his arms instead of stuck to an hospital bed.

Because he was a little less living, pale and sickly, the ghost holding Wataru’s hands was beginning to take substance, compensating for his dulled presence. 

That version of himself created by that love, pure and iridescent, a gemstone that echoed the magician grandiose, prismatic nature.

Had he ever been like this ? In his entire existence ? Tears taste bitter as they meet his lips,  and the sobbing hurts his lung, and suddenly, he’s crying – of something that isn’t physical pain. It blurrs his vision – Wataru’s swirling figure disappears completly. 

He was gonna die, he’d realized, and all the beautiful memories with him, he wouldn’t have any arms to open to recreate Wataru’s presence, and if there ever was an afterlife – how could it rival with this ?

Could spirit feel love so violent it burned their insides ?

 

\- Eichi, squeeze my hand, Wataru tells him, and he obeys.

 

It gives him an anchor even though his weak, tired fingers can’t squeeze very hard. Wataru’s free hand wipes the tears away, he keeps guiding him out of it, patiently reciting the steps of a breathing exercise he can barely follow – but because it’s his voice,  he snaps out of it after a while. There’s no more morbid thoughts obstructing his brain, only faint signals of the present – beeping, light, the scent of roses and jasmin tea like a fog sheltering him from the sterilized atmosphere.

When he’s calm enough, Wataru pulls him in for a hug.

 

\- My, my, he whispers into ears, could it be that I am becoming more selfish everytime we meet ? Stealing the Emperor’s precious tears, you’ll soon have to fire me as a jester, won’t you, your Majesty ?

\- I keep throwing you into panics… I can’t…

 

He takes a deep breath.

\- I can’t ever let you go.

 

He’s thanksful for the distance put by Wataru’s act – that old routine  only existed to help him put his persona back together nowadays, a gentle way to ease him back into pretending he was unaffected by all these raw emotions that came with the prospect of inevitable death and - it was much easier with other people, to be who they expected him to be . Because they weren’t surprising. 

They weren’t miracle makers with a weird sense of theatrics.

 

\- This  freshly  jobless Hibiki Wataru must attend to his duties but...  just call for me and I’ll be there, as always.

 

He nods, and when the magician disappears into the sky (a swift jump into his balloon, he guesses) he feels a weird sense of peace.

Everything was still wrong, painful and horrifying.

Life was still sliping away at an alarming rate but - 

 

_that brilliant shadow would always be dancing in Wataru’s arms_

 

and it made him feel stronger without knowing why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my bad for the wait (who know art school made you want to do nothing but sleep and eat?)  
> will reread and correct at some point (im so tired), but i got too hyped to move this story forward so 
> 
> hope you enjoyed the wataru chapter, they will be few sadly  
> (hes hard to write)  
> (that fucker)


	5. Pond Water

Nobody comments on his scratched knuckles when he comes to work the next day.

They leave him be, only rarely requesting his input on anything ; everybody knew he did better when he was left to his own devices, to his obsessions until he was ready to snap out of it. No amount of advice or friendly suggestions could rival his desire to figure the solution alone.

 

Even when there wasn’t a solution to find in the first place.

To thank them for their silence, he pretends to care about to work for a while – sorting out papers, entering numbers into spreadsheet and making a few calls to reassure the people around him that he’s fine, ultimately untouched by the rythm of life around him, as a machine would be, but that fine array of pre-programmed acting tricks was deceiving everyone but himself. His heart was elsewhere, lost between his office and that hospital room he’d left with the taste of regrets on his tongue.

He did not want to know how much time he’d lost thinking about Eichi in his lifetime anymore – that total count didn’t matter, for all those hours had been utterly insufficient in the end. He’d thought about him as if it was part of a routine, as much as brushing his teeth and getting coffee twice for breakfast, and it hadn’t brought much good as the object of this neverending affection had slipped away from his fingers – freeing himself from the indifference he’d been met with.

He could fight, pretend, yell and scold, and all those things wouldn’t alter the truth, only making him look more and more vulnerable to the reality he was afraid to face, only distancing him from his bestfriend and removing him from the place he most want to be.

 

He considers disappearing for the afternoon and just going in spite of what he’d told Eichi the day before, but because he’d come to no conclusion, he sits on his office chair and fills more paperwork, until his head is just the buzzing pain of a headache, only then does he decide to stop for the day. He grabs his coat and doesn’t bother with goodbyes.

There’s nobody he wants to talk to.

 

Alone with the question he’d repressed all day, he walks until the sky gets dark, walks some more until bars start closing, and only sits down when his feets hurts, on a lonely bench by a river. The colors of the awakening sky find an echo in the water – his eyes get lost in that dance of light, yet his mind can’t quiet, all the world is Eichi in hiding, as if fate itself had tuned everything to sing in the tone of his ill bestfriend’s voice, had arranged the water to mimic the shine of those pure blue eyes he’d stared at with awe so many times, but it didn’t bother him as much as he pretended to. Because of that exact reason – morning feels like a warm embrace.

 

Like thin fingers tucking stray hair behind his ear and a childish voice he so deeply loved telling to go play.

He’d never forget these blessed days, even if he died, even when he’d die. Though he would never confess just how much this long childhood adventure had mattered to him, how it had altered his personnality, identity to the core, in the end, he knew he could believe in things beyond what the eyes could see just because – Eichi had showed him the world, not as it was, but as it could be.

Behind the gray buildings and under the autumn leaves, there were treasures to find, fragment of a wonderland, a door to dreams still unopened, much more than what logic and reason could begin to uncover.

 

He was terrified to lose sight of that invisible beauty without someone, that particular someone to remind him there was more to his existence than doing things right and making his family proud, that there was selfishness and vain hopes, the faint desire to be part of something so great it ran through every leaf of every tree, every droplets of every rainstorm only to end up in his bloodstream leaving him flowing with mystical inspiration, there were – nonsensical fairytales that cold thinking killed within a second, if he wasn’t careful, and he was never careful, absorbed in trivial matters.

He sighs, stands and turns his back to the river.

 

This time again, without a clear answer in mind, he’ll go see him, to try to find his heart again. He’ll visit Eichi to see once more if he could reach the place he longed for the most.

 

 

*.*.*.*

 

 

The hospital is familiar, and so are the corridors leading to the only rooms he cares about, but he’s stopped by a member of the staff who wants to give him some important updates before he can reach it.

He was considered an important representative of the Tenshouin family, almost as crucial as the parents themselves – maybe because those didn’t bother scolding him as much as he did when he stepped out of the line, maybe because the doctors weren’t fooled by his serious facade like he would have wanted them too. He cared, deeply.

The intern seems distressed and uncomfortable, pulling him in an office for some privacy, a warning sign – good news were shared in the hallways, with a smile, with warmth that was utterly absent from this white, almost-empty room.

The words fall like vases. They break upon impact, shatter as they come into existence, and he hears the echo of fragments of this – that truth – falling on the floor. He had thought of himself as prepared.

He clearly wasn’t, in spite of the perfect emotionless face he was showing right now. He smiles, nods, puts the medical reports in his bag. The intern quietly escapes the office with a bad excuse and for a few seconds, he’s not there, mind blank and eyes gazing into a vast nothing.

The shards of the broken vases, of those sentences so harsh coming into contact with them had felt like sustaining a fatal injury – he coudln’t walk past them.

 

Yet he had to, he had to go, to meet him with his heart open this time, he had to see Eichi and say what had been left unsaid for so long.

Even if he’d die, even when he was gonna die, too early, before the life he deserved – so far away from the shining stage of his childhood dreams.

He still had the obligation to chase him with the little time he had left.

 

 

*.*.*

 

\- Good afternoon, he greets him before crossing the door.

 

The noise is overbearing.

Eichi’s breathing had always been concerning whenever he was at the hospital, with its awkward rythm, its profound irregularity, but he couldn’t remember a time where his friend had sounded like this. It was beeping noises for a short while, followed by that desperate sound of his mouth trying to swallow the oxygen it needed to survive. He’d never been competent enough to fully understand the mechanisms of Eichi’s hereditary disease, but he could still tell what was going on off instinct alone.

 

He was struggling, bravely – he could have died already, had he not forged himself a sword of pure will to fight against that predetermined death. Eichi was there, dodging one blow after the other, finding air where there should have been blood. Eichi resisted, endlessly, against a body that wanted to close itself off forever. He breathed even if that breathing was the ugliest thing to ever come out of his mouth, because he had decided it was a fight worth fighting. Doubts about this were gone from his mind since long ago, had disappeared since the fated events that had taken place in Yumenosaki – life was worth living, at its peak and at its bottom too.

Life was unique.

 

This moment, in which his own heart felt lonely and terrified, would never happen a second time quite so strongly and which such vivid horror. Never again would he feel those particular tears welling up, so softly it couldn’t rival with that terrifying noise coming from the person he loved the most on his sickbed, on his deathbed-to-be, trying to hold onto something that was nether etheral nor physical at the same time - an essence of what it meant to exist.

Never again would he hate himself so much and love his bestfriend so deeply at the same time.

 

\- If you hadn’t gone on that trip, you… he begins without even realizing he’d begun talking.

 

This was thinking out loud – expressing ideas that were too hurtful to stay inside his brain – more than conversation. This was him making a mess in an hospital room, spilling feelings he’d contained for several years, staining the sterile heaven with the fruit of regret, because there could never be a second chance in those circumstances.

 

\- I would never be satisfied with that, a voice, hoarse and yet sovereign, declares.

 

He almost laughs, thinking to himself – _how can you still be you when you’re like this,_ and he answers in silence, that anybody else would have been, that normal people settle for the immaculate days where nothing happens save for that hand holding theirs as the visiting hours go by, but that off course, he was special, the most special person to ever have lived.

Nobody would never shine as brightly after growing in the dark, from a dirt and water so stale it killed everything else,  nothing would  ever  rise as high as this particular star born from  the worst of humanity, the sickness  and the lies, the hypocrisy and the envy – he’d never meet somebody as beautiful as Eichi. 

 

That’s why he behaved  like this, so nonsensically.

Human beings faced with angels and god – they hung onto their silly rules as a way to retaliate against their abysmal place in the waltz of the universe.

 

\- You’re greedy and selfish. I visited you as often as I could. Everyone did their best for you. The doctors are trying …

\- What’s in your bag, Keito ? He cuts him, gleefully ignoring all that’s been said previously.

 

The question troubles him, so much he puts his hand on said bag protectively, as if Eichi could read through the fabric somehow. Inside his leather bag were the medical reports he’d been handed earlier, the ones that were disturbingly graphic about the devastation going on inside his bestfriend’s chest, handwritten notes about the patient’s alarming state, and even some incredible guesses – maybe a month, maybe a year left at best, the team was hoping, if only mister Tenshouin agreed to rest - and so much else that he didn’t wish to mention out loud, even though he owes his friend an honest answer.

Those words can’t cross his lips.

 

\- I bet it’s paperwork, Eichi concludes merrily. Because you needed an excuse to look away from me.

 

A few machines beep in agreement as his sentence ends, as if trying to show support.

As always, his observing friend was right, about something he did unconsciously. He’d looked at his face once, upon entering the room – the rest of the time had been spent finding a new faraway dot to focus on. If he did, he would have to destroy the perfect picture in his mind, to kill that brilliant star and replace it with the fading portrait of a dying man.

He takes the seat meant for visitors and turns to see Eichi.

 

But what’s laying on this bed is a shadow, a hollow figure, half of the person he wanted to hold close, who was just an outline with no colour.

« This », the unnameable fiend was draining the very essence of an idol out of him.

 

\- It’s fine. You don’t like the ending I’ve given you, do you ? Eichi asks again.

 

Using up a breath he didn’t really own anymore – his life now belonged to this hospital, to the technology, he wouldn’t be able to break away from those chemical chains. Even the strength to pull out the IVS, to kill himself if he so desired, he’d lose it soon enough.

He’d try to raise his hand and it would fall down on the bedsheets like dead weight.

 

What this really an « ending » at all ?

For the protagonist of the most eventful, emotional story, the cursed child fated to overcome fatality and teach the sky how to be half as bright as a single of his smiles, to disappear, a droplet of blood after the other, in a room so dull and anonymous – could it be called anything like a proper « end » ?

Even when the hero himself was so utterly convinced, he, however, would never accept this as a final stop. In spite of the papers in his bag.

 

There was more, there had to be more, for _they still hadn’t met again_.

 

\- It’s terrible. I would tear the pages away if I ever were to come up with such a stupid conclusion. First your idiotic escapade, now giving up on the story as a whole because you’re content with your little coup with Hibiki ? I’d redo the whole thing.

 

He realizes a bit late that he’d gotten caught up in his explanation, taking on the role of the author instinctively, ready for a rewrite of a bad first draft, except life’s terrible first drafts – were to stay canon forevermore. Once again, he was pursuing a pointless dream instead of acting and changing what he’d still be able to impact.

Yet Eichi’s eyes come alive hearing him ramble so earnestly.

 

\- How, exactly ? He asks.

 

His heart skips a beat, shaken by a violent flashback.

Dirty hands grabbing pages he’d just finished inking, staining his perfect backgrounds, loud laughter followed by coughing, eyes going wide as he discovered the big reveals – innocence long lost, a childhood he’d given up upon, thinking silly thoughts, « i’ll sacrifice myself for his happiness », throwing his own away for the sake of balance.

 

He hadn’t dared to think about how he’d wish for the world to be since then, for that task far on Eichi’s shoulder, or rather, on Eichi’s infinite wings, the same wings of change and possibilities that were now falling apart.

 

\- I …

 

He stumbles, hesitates, but the desire within his chest but harder than a forest fire, for every second was a last chance, the ultimateof his favorite movie of all time, the last frames of the hero’s face surrounded by that hollywoodian glow of light and magic.

For he had been tasked to a rewrite.

 

\- I would have wanted to be there.

 

_I wanted to be with you in soul and spirit more than flesh,_ he bites back, as his vision blurs, just shortly, as those weren’t pained tears, just the natural  expression of regret, raw emotion that  was help ing him break free from the artificial restraint he’d cultivated all those years.

Creating distance from where he wanted to be close, running away in fear of asking for that embrace he longed for, closing doors that he’d rather have opened to share warmth, he was finally exorcising the demons he’d surrounded himself with for so long.

He smiles bitterly, with an immense weight resting on his heart. He couldn’t actually change the story, those pages had been turned already and torn apart, burnt to ashes – the space remaining for an happy ending was getting scarcer and scarcer.

In only a few words, he had to turn everything around, change the axis of the earth and spin the sun in reverse – he had to make a miracle come true.

 

\- Now all I can do is be jealous of Hibiki, of all people, he lets out. He stole your best moments, and what’s left for me is your visiting hours.

 

It feels strange evoking his regrets so openly.

It was admitting failure, admitting that he didn’t have a solution ; that he couldn’t compare to a magician in any way whatsoever, but it’s also what had come to him naturally, something that wasn’t a product of overthinking for once.

Eichi could distinguish one from the other effortlessly.

 

\- You should avenge yourself, he murmurs, and he can tell there’s the intent of a smile in the weak voice he hears.

 

And more than that is the provocation he was so talented for, a dare, a quiet hope. The wish of a child on his hospital bed, to be able to change the future without lifting his hand, by igniting the smallest spark.

Challenging the impossible.

 

\- Take me stargazing, Keito, he adds.

 

As if he wasn’t convinced he’d understand, and he couldn’t blame him – he’d proved himself to be stupid and deaf times and times again. When he’d yearned for his presence in Europe, for his support before that, for a comfort he was too scared to provide, because his past self could never acknowledge the problems.

The issues, written black on write on the morbid papers hidden in his work bag.

 

But he’d arrived at the peak, in that long lost heaven one more time, the only place were Eichi’s voice could resound even as it was dying in the real world, and he was listening again, so there wasn’t any room for doubt. He’ll lead him to the shine he was yearning for, even if it was the last time, because it would certainly be it.

 

\- I’ll consider it, he answers.

 

Eichi laughs, almost again his will, as it is followed by a serie of pained cough, but it reassures him. Eichi always laughed of happiness, never of anxiety – he was simply to happy to enjoy the world around him, so it meant he was becoming entertaining again, as a rare guest he adored to welcome in the cabinet of curiosities he’d acquired throughout his life. He was allowed in again instead of getting stopped at the door.

No more quarrel, no more fruitless fight.

There were together, even if that togertherness translates itself into a one-sided conversation after a while. Eichi asks him to talk for the both of them, and it makes him feel trusted. He was aware of how hard it was to speak in the physical state he was in, even though he forced himself to and never complain, as he’d always be – an idiot with too much to say.

And so little time left to say it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, i'll do a pass at correcting typo when Art School of The Dead leaves me with some time for myself  
> please enjoy the time we have left together in this fic, for it may be very long or very short, i'm like keito, i don't know myself


	6. Bridge of stars

It’s a solo performance.

The costume changes happen before his eyes and yet he can’t seem to see them coming, or to understand anything for that matter – everything moves, everything shines, without a trace of man or machine, a vivid illusion for an audience made captive. Hibiki Wataru no longer exists ; but the story moves on taking shapes unprecedented, like smoke and fireworks, forming patterns in a sky that his frail hand could never hope to touch.

It’s a whirlwind of light and feelings. A convoluted tale, with romantic subplots and alien interventions, magic roses of healing and inherited curses, an extraordinary script, written overnight, instantaneously turning into mythology – but more than that, he knows.

It’s Wataru Hibiki’s swansong.

He’d never thought he’d hear the wailing of this wounded bird and feel anything but indifference. He didn’t like him, having actively avoided being his friend for years, cherishing that separation between their lives, a perfect wall which was crumbling down as tears came rolling down his face, because they were losing the exact same things and coping in the most extremely different ways. Silence and symphonies, warmth and coldness. Crying for help, and – quietly crying for nobody to come help you, accepting despair as the endless ocean that would drown out all the noises, and it did. It did make the world quieter.

Except for that intolerable wailing, from the creature that flew free.

He escapes during the applause, as fans clap and throw roses, rewarding the thousand-faced actor for another feat of legend that the man behind the mask – didn’t seem to care much about. There’s sorrow in his farewells, and he waves to the only unoccupied seat of the theater, smiling for the ghost only they could see. It’s pathetic all the way through.

The clapping echoes backstage as he finds the door to Wataru’s dressing room.

Surprisingly, there’s no birds in sight, not even the relentless chirping that seemed to be the man’s greatest joy, but the floor is littered with wigs and half-finished costumes, and he has to navigate around half a dozen piles of books before finding what could be an actual, usable dressing table. It’s some bizarre antique, of course, and he even finds one of those old-fashioned perfume bottles lying next to a recent, expensive eyeshadow palette, as if all this was a stage of its own, perfect to a fault.

He notices his designated seat quickly. First, because it’s surrounded by the only folded clothes in the room, and second, because the bookpile closest to it has the spines neatly spelling out « w-e-l-c-o-m-e » - he doesn’t resist and takes his place on the comfortable red sofa, fiddling with his bag’s shoulder strap to pass time.

\- You should have helped yourself to an energy drink, I store those under the Shakespearean costumes.

\- So you  _ do  _ cheat, he answers without even thinking twice about it.

Hibiki had appeared from some trap door and was already making him regret half of his decision. A soda can materializes a few centimeters away from his hand. He doesn’t reach for it – the actor, however, pays it no mind and starts pouring himself a cup of tea, a tasteless trick that had never stopped getting on his nerves. It was all he’d seen in the magician for the longest time. Loud bragging, amplified by Eichi’s indulgence, noise, but now he hears something worse in that absence of birds around him, and his comment lingers in the air just a minute too long.

He’d always hated that reputation of his .

The way his pirouettes transitioned flawlessly into one other, how his feet never fully settled on solid ground, how Wataru was air, exhilarating, unfairly out of reach, reminding everyone, that only one in a million – got to be a « genius ».

\- I didn’t think you’d let a cheater like me perform. Don’t you have to avenge yourself at some point, loyal right hand  ?

His voice isn’t quite right, nor is his posture, with back turned to him, eyes not even turned to his reflection in the dressing desk’s mirror, mesmerized by a distant vision instead. Standing straight, carrying his head up high out of habit, everything but the image of a broken ballerina, long hair falling like a stage curtain as he refused, for once, to entertain.

His hand grabs what seems to be makeup remover, except after a few seconds – it falls back down, digging its nail into tender wood instead. He’d watched the play carefully, listened to every word, trying to prepare for that moment, to get a glimpse into Wataru’s head so that he’d find just the right words to say.

\- It must be wonderful to have a childhood friend … To wish on a shooting star and get to keep it near. Though staring straight into celestial bodies really does hurt one’s eyes. Or are the glasses just a prop, I wonder ?

The actor looks at him for this final question, and his eyes are disturbingly insistent.

This was the subject he’d never asked about.

He didn’t wish to know of his pain or his secrets.

He’d fought so hard to make him a stranger ; he was a thief, an egoist, a lunatic – a target, even, back then. There was no place there for strange emotions and sentimentality, only logical responses to exhibit in the face of such an obnoxious nuisance. It was a relationship with no cracks in the foundation, no space left for an odd flower to bloom, but he’d stared at Eichi’s smile too many times to not know, that Wataru was light, and that what he was staring at was darkness, deep and endless behind the violet haze.

\- Your play was interesting, he ends up spitting out, unable to place words to his discomfort.

\- Interesting ? That’s quite the plain insult. There’s thirty-seven roles in there for you to detest. I never went beyond ten back when I was busy being… what you call interesting.

His hands are shaking, though his tone is starting to realign with what had come to be known as « the genius named Hibiki Wataru », no matter how artificial this identity had become.

It was the theme of his story after all, with its simple, silly premise, « the tale of the shoe-stealing ghost », a lost spirit who took the place of the person whose shoes he found. In the fifth act, the ghost remembered his former identity and found his own shoes worn by somebody else – tormenting the mysterious « lonely man » until he’d eventually had to let go of his prized possession and slowly come to terms with what his afterlife had been, dedicated to one imitation after the other.

The very last scene too, he remembered clearly.

It had the ghost performing a happy dance around the shoes, clamoring about all the things he’d get to do once he’d be back to his former self. I’d get to dance with the man I love, he said. I’d get to eat my favorite food ! He added. I’ll take my shoes to work, and my shoes will take me to my children’s school ! And then, in the shoes I adore, I’ll get to walk some more…

And then the ghost finally put his shoes on, only to freeze, in perfect, cinematic silence, before turning to the audience, pointing to himself and asking, clearly.

Who’s that man ?

Of course, because it was a Wataru Hibiki play, the audience did get to suggest to the amnesiac ghost who to play last. They described a new, fun, lovable character, and the stage clown ended on a happy note, concluding in a grandiose, dramatic eureka !  moment, that « yes, from now on, that shall be me ! ».

It was pretty fun to those who didn’t know of the author’s taste for tragedy.

He’d found it more alarming.

\- Hibiki, you need to sit down if we’re really going to have a talk.

\- I’m not here to _humor_ _you_ , he protests as he takes place on a small stool, facing the mirror.

The reflection tells the rest, odd tears flow and makeup comes undone, revealing a skin too pale even for star-like, moon wanderer Hibiki Wataru. His breathing is shaky despite efforts for control, and finally the room makes sense, the lack of care, the sense of abandonment and the overabundance of books. Wataru had been piling up reassuring clichés in the search of some warmth, making paper towers in this lonely, atrocious cage.

Wailing.

He’s had enough.

He gets off the sofa and goes to lean on the side of his cluttered dressing desk, knocking out some fancy products in the process on purpose. The man looks up.

\- What do you want ? Is there any other fine commentary you’re sparing me from ?

He takes an envelope out of his bag and puts it in the spot he’d cleared. It looks out of place, but does its work of raising the magician’s curiosity. It is not, however, a cure for an anxious, overworked man, so he forces himself, just a bit, and reaches for Wataru’s hand, a gesture that isn’t – to his surprise – met with much resistance.

And for a while, he gets to see him like Eichi does.

He’d let the anger build up for so long, hoping that the release would bring him joy, that the rush of adrenaline of a single punch or a dozen more - he’d never planned on holding back – would erase or even rewrite the pain. That somehow, he could give a taste of karmic retribution to that horrible magician without ever having to open his mouth, and without giving him a chance to twist the knife either. There was no use knowing the anecdotes, as watching the thousand-faced genius coming undone was enough to fill in any blank that the medical reports hadn’t covered already.

But with Eichi’s eyes – he felt sorry, and he felt weird love, attachment to that flower that bloomed under the stage light. Weird love for the costume, and the tricks, the treachery even, respect for that dedication, for that craft. The magician was right. Friends were a wonderful thing. Childhood dreams were bright and blazing like he thought, and all of his slogans from TV, back when he was just a lonely kid with a fancy hat, held just as much truth as they had contained sorrow, hope and pride.

\- You’re even more unpleasant when you’re angry, which I didn’t think was feasible, he starts. Your cheerful self just sets the standard too high already.

He really did mean that one.

Slowly, with his free hand, he grabs a makeup wipe and starts working on the actor’s face. There’s something blasphemous about the act, as if he was ripping the Mona Lisa apart, scrubbing paint just to contemplate what had once been a blank canvas.

\- Can’t you hold back the urge to clench your fists for a second ? He asks, still removing foundation from the magician’s nose. And what did you put in that tea, is it just a fancy protein shake with some smoke to deceive me ? I take it back, you do not have a notion of standards.

Wataru laughs.

The fifth wipe finally manages to reveal the dark circles under his eyes. His hand slips away from his own, and reaches from some fancy water to spray himself with – he glances at some other products too, clearly itching to put a mask back on, but while he tries to guess his thoughts, tea falls neatly into two cups, rose-scented and familiar. It’s a peace offering.

\- I send the birds to watch over him, the blue-haired genius confesses.

He nods, and takes a sip of the warm beverage. Listening wasn’t his strong suit, especially when he’d come to make a request, and when he’d taught himself to cut excuses short with lectures. He was almost thankful for the magical, solemn air of Hibiki’s every sentence, he made it easy for those who wanted to – to be carried by that flow.

\- I wanted to be the first to know when it’d happen... but none of them ever come back anymore. They’re scared of my reactions. I don’t blame them.

\- Geez, get help, he says, a second before realizing Hibiki’s room was  _ already  _ equipped with a comfortable, therapy-ready couch.

\- That’s – he makes a vague gesture in direction of the door – that, out there, is my help. And also my courteous attempt to not get in your way, four-eyed blindman. Some characters are better appreciated off stage.

\- Too easy. Way too easy, he finally protests, pushing the envelope toward him.

Wataru gives him a questioning look before pulling out the heavy pile of papers. Suddenly, half of the desk is clean, and the actor is laying pages in front of him, with an expression of what could be described as – joyful joy.

\- I brought something for you to review first, he concludes. I won’t let you make an escape in front of my eyes ever again.

And for the first time in more than a decade, he’s happy that the man in front of him exists and feels thankful for their..  _ rivalry. _

For the silly concept of a best enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will correct the typos but the concept of a beta reader is scary and so is the whole writing process  
> thanks for anybody picking this up after I've left it alone for so long, I'll try to finish this story no matter what!
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT : thank you @eggfish for editing this chapter !! I'm so happy to present a work in beautiful, typo-free english thanks to u !


	7. Daylight

The limousine drops them off in the darkest, most remote part of the hospital’s underground parking, far enough for security to fend off any last remaining fan. They change outfits quickly. That part is routine.

 

A staff member is waiting in front of the elevator. He forces a smile and he makes an effort to shake her hand.

They’d discussed the conditions of this visit on the way, and he had promised to be nice, or rather, _nicer_ than this stage persona. He’d nodded along as Yuzuru kept expanding the list of rules even if he knew that the butler was just talking to reassure himself at this point. He was indulging in a reassuring activity too – staring at his phone to shake off the worries on his mind.

 

Eichi’s messages were always funny and interesting. He’d received a lot of pictures from his trip – after the fact, of course. He was still angry that nobody had warned him of his disappearance, though it was pretty obvious Long Hair had scheduled it to overlap with their studio dates on purpose – still, he had felt annoyed and ashamed learning about the whole accident through one of their assistants. Keito had sent them an e-mail. Just one, annoying, formal email, and before he knew it, Eichi was back, and each day, he got to see a new photo with some kind of intelligent commentary.

 

Photos that were so undoubtedly meant for him it had become a mesmerizing journey.

It was like a mini-gallery, of all the interesting foreign things that reminded Eichi of him. Pink ice cream of Italy, cute outfits in Parisian shops, pastries – he’d shown him some of his disguises too. In exchange, he tried to impress him with anecdotes of his idol activities, promising to bring some merch to the Tenshouin mansion so that they could rave about it together. It was his effort to support him without stepping foot in the dreaded place. As long as there was routine, he could pretend not to see.

 

And then they’d confiscated all of his electronic devices, forcing him to admit that this tall building full of germs and sadness was _Eichi’s world,_ one few people came back from.

 

The elevator takes them to the ninth floor and a nurse gives them a short briefing about yet more rules. He can’t focus on her voice. His eyes wander, noticing torture devices here and there, tired expressions on every face, and two solitary vending machines that seem depressed as well. Finally, they’re told they have to go to room 41. « It’s a private area », the lady reassures them, as if he wasn’t aware of how much money the Tenshouin poured into hospitals just so that their son would receive such privileges. He smiles again, repressing the urge to snap at innocent interns on the way. He’d mastered that kind of performance. There were days when everybody was stupidly annoying and he still had to smile.

 

They find Eichi’s room at the end of a very long corridor, incredibly isolated indeed.

Yuzuru grabs his wrist before he can open the door.

 

\- I’d like to reiterate that this is a terrible idea, the butler declares.

\- Shut up, back-up dancer.

\- Tori. You should _think this through_ before rushing in there.

 

He tries to wrestle out of his grasp, but it’s no use.

He’s hurting him, using excessive force – which really wasn’t his style. Paying no attention to him as they’d advanced through the hospital, lost in his own thoughts, he’s noticing too late his cold expression and the dark aura surrounding him, how his eyes had reverted to this wild kind of intensity he hadn’t seen in a few years. His unitmate had been handling every official matter ever since they’d entered the building. He’d believed it was just another means to spare him unnecessary trouble, but it was so characteristic of Yuzuru to hide his mental state under layers of excessive politeness.

He was _disturbed._

Disturbed never looked reassuring on Yuzuru.

 

\- I’m not letting you go before you hear me out, he adds.

\- Do you need to beat me up first then? It feels like it’s you who doesn’t want to see him ! You can babysit me from the corridor if you… if you’re…

 

The death glare he’s graced with stops him dead in his tracks.

They’d had useless discussions in the cars, and heated debates back at the mansion. A lot of _it’s for your own good,_ mixed with sincere concern – the topic never really left, being brought up during dinner and after practice, because they were professionals now, adult idols, and it wasn’t about bringing flowers and gifts to a school’s president. They could never go back to such simple days.

 

\- He’s my friend as well, the butler declares coldly as he releases his hand.

 

And he finally understands Yuzuru’s stubborn opposition, even if he doesn’t want to.

 

He’d never really given up on his chase.

In the absence of his absolute role model, after they’d decided to put an end to one of the most impactful units of Yumenosaki’s entire history, the responsibilities had just started piling up so rapidly on his shoulders that he had been left with no choice but to learn, how to be like him in his absence.

First raising a new group from scratch, making a reputation for himself no matter how much he would have wanted to remain Himemiya Tori _of fine_ , then, taking a seat he felt undeserving of as the school’s president after Mao’s graduation, which had been even harder since Yuzuru couldn’t be there to support him - he’d experienced the burden of the Emperor, realizing that everything he ever did well, Eichi had done better and more graciously before.

 

They still saw each other once in a while. Eichi kept praising him every time they met for lunch, complimenting his decisions – but the praise was hollow, even more when he offered advice for issues he didn’t even bring up out loud, guessing his shortcomings with disturbing ease, leaving him happy and flattered for an hour, but unsatisfied for weeks afterwards. It meant nothing, to be half of his talent, following into footsteps too big for his mediocrity to ever fully compete with.

He couldn’t count the hours he’d spent crying in frustration in the student council room, before he’d taken his decision to make _Demiurge_ , so that he’d have a reason to stand tall and say, _I’ve become a true leader, just like you_.

So that Eichi wouldn’t be just proud – he’d be _impressed._

 

And maybe his resolve would falter and fall apart after seeing what had become of his guiding star, he couldn’t know for sure, couldn’t quiet Yuzuru’s worries even after all these arguments, after all the tantrums he’d thrown just to convince him of setting up this late night visit, but he had an answer now, and a chance, to be more than an adoring fan.

 

_A friend isn’t someone who blindly follows._

 

He takes a deep breath before opening the door, still feeling a weird burning sensation on his skin.

The room is dark and at first, he’s not even sure what’s lying on the bed is Eichi ; it’s thin and scary, bound to so many machines and monitors he feels like he’d walked in on the set of an horror movie, complete with terrifying sound effects. The « thing » is breathing but in pain, and once Yuzuru turns on the light, he has to fight the urge to run away, because it turns to him and tries to talk, and it makes no doubt that those pale blue eyes are _his._

 

\- Mature, handsome Tori. And…

\- If you say one more unnecessary word, and especially an adjective, I’ll make it my responsibility to kill you, Yuzuru cuts him short.

  
  
*.*.*  
  


He can’t relax.

They’d been sitting next to his bed for maybe half an hour, with Yuzuru taking it upon himself to lead the conversation, having no difficulty making small talk and entertaining Eichi, who looks happy – or at least he thinks so. It’s hard to stare at him for too long.

Eichi coughs in the middle of most of his sentences, before composing himself as if it hadn’t even happened, and it’s weird because that part is reminiscent of what he’d lived through as a member of fine, except that back then, their leader had the strength to hide before completely breaking down. He was spared from this horrible spectacle.

He catches himself staring at the weird tube that goes into his nose and attaches behind his ears. He’d seen something like it in a few pictures attached to fanmail, along with letters saying « I’m doing my best so I’ll go to your concert someday ! » or « your music helps me keep courage ! ». He hates the fact that it makes Eichi seem so vulnerable, reliant on ugly bits of plastic to live.

 

Listening to him, he also ends up noticing how short most of his sentences are. He can’t stand it, aware that the eloquence is still in there. The text messages, the pictures, the lyrics of the songs he still could sing by heart were all proof, and the person laying in bed is just a prisoner.

They’d stolen all his shine.

 

Yuzuru updates him on their career and talks about _Demiurge_ ’s recent concerts. Eichi makes a few jokes about their choice of branding. It’s as if he’s guesting on a variety show, and he jumps in only when it’s needed, forces a laugh, but can’t put his heart into the conversation. The set is too ugly. Nothing like what he had imagined.

 

He knew, that Eichi was dying, that Eichi would die, that the fantasies in which he attended his wedding and his award shows were just that, fantasies, but witnessing the truth, to wondering if he could have done more while being just too aware there wasn’t more to do, no better memories to be had – was simply unbearable.

He hadn’t thought hard enough about how to deal with this and now he was left with this awkward weight on his chest, a mix of anger and bitterness.

Maybe there wasn’t a good way to say goodbye.

 

\- You’re not talking much, his hero remarks.

 

He jumps back, startled. He’d spaced out without realizing, lulled by the perfect rhythm of Eichi and Yuzuru’s back-and-forth, so much that his own butler had had time to escape to take a phone call before he’d even remembered he was part of the conversation.

It was pitiful. He’d gone through such rigorous training to be worthy of his family’s business and leader role, and the moment Eichi laid eyes upon him, he reverted back to being the sheltered Himemiya heir, the one that the troublesome Tenshouin son indulged during social gatherings as their family forgot about their existence

 _I would have stayed the same without you,_ he thinks. _I wouldn’t have even tried to grow up if it weren’t for you._

_I’m not even sure I still want to._

 

\- It’s good that you and Yuzuru are getting popular, Eichi adds. You’re on the cover of that famous magazine…

\- It should have been you, he lets out, and his eyes are already watering.

 

Yuzuru had bought him some time on purpose and was probably also still waiting in a faraway corridor for the sake of this moment. He’d repressed that thought for so long that hearing the words in his own voice makes him shiver, and though he doesn’t break eye contact with him – his vision blurs, and he brings his legs up on the chair to hold his knees, a childish reflex.

 

Eichi’s expression is one of softness.

 

\- It’s your place, he protests.

 

His heart skips a beat.

The idea is so weird, absurd, except he’d said it in that special tone of voice. He’d sounded like a leader, something he’d definitely convinced himself Eichi wasn’t capable of doing anymore, just because his sickness was so incredibly _there –_ but his intuition hadn’t betrayed him in the end. Words could be killed by coughs and pained breathing. Soul, spirit, nobility, those didn’t die as easily.

 

Slowly, unsure, he reaches for Eichi’s hand, pushing through the disgust, finding it strangely warm.

He’s rewarded with a smile that makes him believe that coming here, in this awful temple of death and sorrow, had been a bigger victory than anything he’d achieved during the year, something more meaningful than learning difficult choregraphies and appearing in publicity campaigns, even though a part of him still wishes for a way to pull him out of bed back into the world of the living.

 

\- It’s your place … because people can look at Tori and say… « Ah, it sure looks fun up there, on that stage ».

 

He squeezes his hand harder, choking on bitter tears. _You’re never coming back, are you ?_ His mind is screaming, and the darkness of the room provides him just a bit of comfort, because it feels as if they are truly alone for once, and in obscurity – it’s okay to display his sadness hoping the morning light would take it away. Eichi is being so patient, letting him cry like this, so much that he begins to wonder if that kind of moment was part of a dying person’s chores, to indulge their friend’s feelings and to help them bury their memories and hopes.

But Eichi’s smiling too brightly for that to be true – his eyes are shining.

 

\- They can be happy… and feel special… watching a top idol.

 

His eyes open wide in surprise ; the tears stop abruptly, and thoughts rush to his head so fast he can’t decide on what to say, opening his mouth then closing it again until he notices footsteps coming from behind the door and he decides that there’s no point of talking. He just tries to align his smile with Eichi’s and enjoy the most incredible compliment he’d ever heard. _A top idol. Someone that makes you happy._

 

\- And a top idol has to be very selfish… and leave no regrets behind, he adds, his voice shifting just slightly.

 

He sounds satisfied.

It’s the moment Yuzuru picks to go back into the room.

 

\- I see you don’t intend to give up on your bad habit of indoctrinating the youth, Eichi-sama, he scolds.

\- I was just delivering some inspirational last words to _my_ fine, no-fun Yuzuru.

 

His butler sighs, and Eichi discreetly lets go of his hand.

Yuzuru and him seem to be fighting a silent battle with one other ; it suddenly occurs to him that he’d experienced that kind of scene before, whenever _they’d been scheming together._ He’d been so obsessed and worried about that visit that he hadn’t even taken account the very obvious fact that his unitmate had been the one doing the negotiations in order to make it happen, and also that Eichi didn’t have to have just one number in his phone to send messages to.

« He’s my friend as well » he’d said, and once again, he wonders what important people like Eichi had to do once they knew they weren’t going to live long enough.

 

\- Take your own advice, Yuzuru finally lets out, looking completely defeated after their little staring contest.

 

His expression is almost too funny. It’s as if they’re back in high school, with Eichi knowingly pushing Yuzuru to his limits just too assess his determination, except that, this time, there’s no animosity. He can guess the source of their disagreement, because Yuzuru is too protective to abstain from meddling, and his opponent – too stubborn to make many compromises.

Eichi turns back to him.

_A top idol has to be selfish._

 

\- Tori, I want a hug. Even if I look like a hideous zombie. It’s _his_ orders.

 

He stick his tongue out at Yuzuru before pushing his chair away to go lay his head on Eichi’s shoulder.

It’s complicated at first – there’s tubes, needles under his skin, and he has to help him turn onto his side so that they can truly hug. After a little while, he feels a hand patting his hair, a gesture so reminiscent of the past that tears well up again. Eichi’s breathing sounds especially awful from up close, but he’s happy nonetheless. He stays still to give him the time he needs, afraid that moving away too soon would ruin the moment.

He wanted him to feel really, really special and loved.

 

Once he stands back up, Eichi decides to look up and stare at Yuzuru again.

His butler bends down to fluff his pillows and pull up his blankets, acting as if he’s receiving orders telepathically – or maybe it was a reflex he couldn’t control whenever he was sad for someone ? - until he decides to also adjust his messy hair, in a surprisingly affectionate gesture.

 

\- We have a handshake event tomorrow morning, so I’m afraid we can’t offer to sing you to sleep but I hope… I hope you continue to support us, Eichi-sama.

 

Yuzuru bows and he does the same, because it feels right, but Eichi’s eyes are already half-closed, and they exit the room quietly, not expecting one more word from the man they’d exhausted with a late night visit.

They walk back to the elevator in silence, still processing the moment they’d just lived, as the truth sunk into their heart – this was the last time, and no matter how hard they’d tried to make it good, they couldn’t just leave and go on. He’d decided to call their unit _Demiurge,_ makers of worlds, without anticipating that he’d have to recreate his whole universe around an absence of Eichi, yet he felt ready to move forward, to climb to the top and selfishly say.

That he had become an idol.

That he could hold his hand up to the sky, grab a star, and feel close to him until the end of times.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again @eggfish for proofreading !  
> Writing Tori/Tori's POV is a challenge.... (the real challenge is indulging in a fic that never gets lighter)


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